Restoration
by Sresla
Summary: Zevran Arainai and Sandor Surana return to Antiva City to strike a bargain they hopefully won't come to regret.


He didn't know enough Antivan to make trying to follow the conversation worthwhile, so he stood sentinel – impassive yet attentive – and allowed Zevran to speak for them both.

The man had not wanted a mid-afternoon meeting. "Which is why we demand it be one," Zevran said, after a sleepy stretch when they woke that morning. "Everyone expects spies and assassins to skulk around in the midnight hours and to wriggle like unearthed nightcrawlers in daylight. He will think he is speaking to a functionary, like himself. It will make him overconfident and disrespectful. And that is always," the other elf said, with a sly grin, "fun to watch."

They were the only clients in the tavern. The barkeep was making a poor job of wiping down the tables in the front of the room; the clunk of wood against wood, the slop of water on stone and the gaggle of indistinct voices like distant geese intimated the drudges were thoroughly occupied. That was one of the major differences between Antiva and Ferelden: its people loved to talk and took any silence as a lapse in conversation that needed filling.

When it came, Sandor's left arm felt heavy like it sometimes did on the rare occasions when he drank too much. He knew his partner could not feel increased weight, so he squeezed out the code, removed his hand from Zevran's shoulder and took a step backward.

The assassin switched to common. "You would not be lying to me, would you Brosch? You were paid a great deal of money and it would be a significant disappointment to discover the information you passed along was false."

His lover ignored the indignant denial and busied himself by standing and pouring from the jug into one of the tankards on the table. He didn't skimp but instead filled the vessel almost to the rim. "There now, something cool to bank inflamed tempers. I am sorry to have questioned your integrity." The man remained wary; his left hand never left the pommel of his broadsword which, seated, was as tall as he was but the temptation of a free drink proved difficult to resist. "Please, I insist." The elf pushed the mug toward the other man before retaking his seat, scooting his chair forward. Brosch grabbed the cup and raised it to his lips.

The single, narrow pane of glass in the back room let in very little light. It was stained with grease and _shisha_ vapor which left thick runnels ending in crystalized droplets like tree sap down the wavy glass. When Zevran pushed back his cowl, the sun struggled to reach his face, but those weak rays were enough to dimly define the tattoos that curved from eyebrow to jawline.

Sandor smiled at the sputter that sprayed liquid out the sides of the cup. His partner's fame, '_Infamy_' he corrected, was due in no small part to the fact that he himself remained alive today. If either one of them had died in the assassin's original ambush, well…

He watched as Zevran placed both his hands on the table, ostensibly to put the other man at ease. "I do not care to be drenched in vomit on my first day back in Antiva City. I thought we might at least wait until the third or fourth day, eh _mago_?" Zevran shifted in his seat and tipped a wink at his lover. Sandor rolled his eyes. He was never going to live that down. "Now then," the assassin turned back around, facing the man whose obvious fear kept him silent through the exchange between the two elves, "drink your drink and let us begin again. This time," he leaned forward, "I know you desire to tell me _everything_."

"We have just made the closest charcoal seller a very, very rich man." His partner twisted the leaves off a peppery radish and popped it in his mouth. Unlike Ferelden inns, they were served a platter of raw vegetables instead of bread. A servant who brought the first had scurried back into the kitchen with Zevran's demands still ringing in her ears.

The plate had held a halved cucumber and while it was the least onerous of the burdens he had to bear after becoming a Grey Warden, the Joining had left Sandor with a severe olfactory aversion to it. Even the faint scent of cucumber made him ill. '_Alistair develops an appreciation for fine cheeses and I'm stuck feeling nauseous. Although 'fair' and 'Grey Warden' aren't words I'd ever pair together._' He picked apart his cauliflower floret, chewing the pieces slowly.

"As if I would take the time to poison him," Zevran picked up his glass, sniffed its contents and set it back down, "when it is so much quicker and simpler to slit his throat. Some people," he declared, "have an elevated sense of their own importance."

"Maybe they just don't trust you. You have a reputation, after all."

"Mmm, so I do, _amante_. Is it not well deserved?" Zevran's hand dropped into Sandor's lap; his lover squeezed his thigh.

"Not charming."

"Terrible liar," the other elf countered. He chuckled as Sandor glanced over his shoulder. "This is not Ferelden, _mago_. No one cares what we do, here. In fact," his hand slid up the mage's leg, "some might even pay us a few _finae_ to put on more of a show. A way to supplement our meager income, yes? There is a festival–"

His partner's chuckle erupted into hearty laughter as Sandor removed his hand and placed it firmly in his own lap. Zevran leaned back in his chair as his laugher subsided. The mage could see he was at ease here, in a way he hadn't been while they were on the road, travelling across Thedas. "Ah… it is good to be home." He picked up another radish, dipped it in the watered wine he'd just rejected, tilted his head back and let the liquid drip into his mouth

'_Home._' It was strange to hear the assassin say it, even though Sandor knew Zevran never considered Ferelden anything but temporary.

"We meet Boldizsár tonight."

"What about–"

"If Boldizsár does not like what he hears, perhaps never. She is reclusive and those who serve her loyal beyond measure."

"It's a good thing you can be persuasive, then."

"I am not the one under scrutiny. Me she has known of since I was purchased by the Crows. This gambit… I do not know, _mago_. I cannot help but think there is a better way. Something we have not thought of. Perhaps we need only more time to find it."

It was the guilt talking. If Zevran had told him everything sooner – confessed what he knew – they could have returned to Antiva on their terms rather than being forced into a bargain they might come to regret. It was no use second guessing the past now, though; they no longer had the luxury to debate the plan's merits.

He wrapped his hand around the back of his lover's neck, tightened his grip slightly and whispered, "I'll do what they want. They'll have no cause to deny me. This will keep us safe."

He felt the connection tingle through his fingertips. Even if he hadn't reinforced the bond in Carastes through a poisonous mixture of lyrium and his own blood, the two elves had been together too long for Zevran to be able to resist his magic. '_I don't like doing this to you. You're not leaving me a choice.'_ His partner's eyes were glassy and unfocused; the whites threaded with red at the corners as the mage repeated his assurances to imbed them in the assassin's consciousness. When he was done, the thoughts would seem like Zevran's own to him. They _would_ be his own, if he quit looking for answers that weren't there. This was their only option. This would buy him time to better understand the magic he rarely used; he could experiment in a place so rife with murder that no one would notice an unusual death or two. '_I don't want to fight with you, _asesino_. Not about this. Not again.'_

He released the spell and sat back as Zevran rubbed his temples. He hated seeing the aftereffect of his spell casting; that moment of confused disorientation his lover suffered when he was forced to impose his will on the other elf. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed the goblet and downed the wine in a single swallow.

"No, I know, _amante_. We do this for the right reasons. It is the only way. Doubtless you will win them over, as you did me."

Sandor looked over the rim of his glass. '_The right reasons. It was the only way._' He managed a smile and was rewarded with a cocksure grin that nearly broke his heart.

* * *

This story is based off a picture I commissioned from Kenno Arkkan; I'm a regular in his streams. I liked the results so much, I felt compelled to write something to go along with it. This continues the story of Sandor and Zevran (albeit further in the future) from The Power of Blood (spoilers?). Eventually, one day, this will probably get integrated into the entire narrative but because of where it's set now (and where TPOB is at currently), I decided to publish it separately. I really wish would allow us to post pictures so you could see the art itself. However, it is up on my Tumblr - or you can simply track the #Zevran tag and find it that way.

S, Z and I thank you for taking the time to read this story. If you're so inclined, feel free to review (a critique is just as valued as praise). I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


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